The Bright Side
by The Bitch Who Died
Summary: Maybe I should tell you my name, so someone will remember it. Evan Goldman. Previously a resident of Manhattan, New York, the run down apartment near Central Park and across the street from the pretzel vendor who always whistles while he works even though he has no eyebrows. I just moved to Indiana. And I'm going to die. Inspired by The Giver one-shot [slight evcy/goldunn] AU


So, in English, we've been reading _The Giver._ We were assigned to write a fictional narrative about an essential question inspired by the book. I, of course, turned it into a FanFiction because that's just what I do.

Is it rushed? Yes. Is it good? No. Are you going to read it anyways? Probably.

EQ: What's better — order or disorder?

* * *

There is no "bright side" to being the new kid. No matter _what_ my mom says. Not in the 7th grade. Not in your _first year _of _middle school_ when you're turning 13. And _especially_ not when you've just moved from _New York_ to _Indiana._

Maybe I should backtrack a little for you, I should probably start with a name. My name. But maybe my name doesn't matter anymore. I think that's what the test that came with the enrollment papers for this school was for, so I could be classified and identified by something else in the classroom.

I don't actually know. This school, this process, it's all foreign to me. It might as well be in Greek or Archaic Latin. Actually, I can understand Archaic Latin pretty well so, just Greek. Or hieroglyphs. I can't read those at all. Except my name. Which maybe I should tell you just so someone remembers it.

Evan Goldman. Previously a resident of Manhattan, New York, the run down apartment near Central Park and across the street from the pretzel vendor who always whistles while he works even though he has no eyebrows. Only son of the newly divorced Mister and _Miss_ Goldman, Jewish, an upcoming bar mitzvah in October, looking worn out and feeling run down, still jet lagged after a month and 12 days.

About to die.

Probably.

* * *

It's not as bad as I make it sound though. I guess. My neighbor, Patrice Parker, is nice and pretty. She's a month younger than me. Apparently, the birthdays in our class range from late August, 1995 to January, 1996. Everyone is either 13 or on the verge of it.

And maybe I'm freaking out over nothing, but there's no way I'll get _anyone_ to my bar mitzvah if anyone popular's birthday is close to mine. That matters — a lot!

My bar mitzvah is supposed to be the _one day_ where nothing goes wrong. Where everything is perfect and happy. Which Patrice says goes against her religion because she's Catholic and "everyone knows we don't have that kind of thing. I mean, a day where you're happy?"

She's funny. I like that about her, like I like the way she smiles and how she's nice and welcoming.

Speaking of Patrice — "come on, Evan, we've gotta get to homeroom!" Homeroom. Room 13. It might as well have a sign that says "welcome to hell" taped to it. Or a plaque.

"Can't I live just another 3 minutes?" I sigh, offering a hopeless smile.

"No. Now stop being so dramatic," she says, dragging me by the wrist. I take the opportunity to glance around, scope out the fellow prisoners.

A few stick out; a blonde guy who looks like he could kill me, definitely a jock, a short guy following the blonde guy, another guy following the blonde guy, with dark skin (I'd say African-American but what if he's not African? Then I'm making stupid assumptions) and a style somewhere between laid back and "my mom made me wear this" who also looks like a jock, a blonde girl with legs like sticks and flashing this bright smile, she's like an 11 on the scale, a small girl tapping away at her phone, and a brunette with skin paler than the moon, she's clearly best friends with the blonde girl, judging by the way they're talking.

Then, it hits me. Literally.

Patrice, and I'm not kidding, hits me. Thanks, Patrice. I figure I groan or something and rub my temple, I'm not quite sure. I'm too distracted by the fact that _Patrice the pacifist_ just _hit _me. I'm not kidding. She actually took her hand and smacked me. Even though she's a pacifist. I did _nothing!_

"What?" I exclaim.

"Stop staring at Lucy, she, as a _rule, _is not to be trusted, Evan. Sure, she looks harmless, but she's _Satan,_" Patrice lectures (read: exaggerates, there's no way she's Satan. Probably).

"I was not staring at her —wait, which one's Lucy?" Patrice sighs in exasperation at my question.

"The brunette talking to Kendra, the blonde, that girl, right there — " Patrice points at the pale girl (who's _also_ like a freaking _11_) " — that's Lucy Dunn. She's ruthless. And looking this way, come on, Evan."

Lucy Dunn. I stare as Patrice guides me away to room 13. AKA, _hell._

* * *

We're greeted by Archie Walker, Patrice's only other friend, who lives down the street. He's got a muscular disorder . . . Or something. I don't think he's gonna get better. Ever.

Terminal.

He's on crutches. They click against the tile floor, well, clop. I guess. I don't really know.

"Hey, guys," he smiles at us with bags under his eyes. I wonder if he was in the hospital. I haven't seen him in a week.

"Hey, Archie," Patrice chirps, smiling brightly.

I smile.

"We get'ta choose where we sit, that's what he told me," Archie nods, wisely, his lisp or whatever acting up. "Sit" comes out closer to "sthit" and dangerously close to, well, you know.

"Awesome," I grin, shrugging my shoulder to fix my sliding backpack.

We swipe 3 desks in the middle of the classroom, Archie and Patrice sitting around me. It's perfect; my 2 best friends here, a nice breeze from the window, just the right amount of sunshine, it's not nearly as bad as I'd thought.

The class piles in with the bell. I see the faces and the people that stood out; the blonde guy, the short guy, the black guy, the blonde girl — Kendra, the small girl, and the brunette. Lucy. I also pick out another blonde girl with her hair in a ponytail, gossiping with the small girl, a black girl smiling at them, a guy with dark, curlyish hair, and a skinny guy. 13. A total of 13 for room 13.

A coincidence or is that how it works here?

Nevermind. 7 more kids just strolled in.

"Everyone shut up and pick a seat. Choose carefully," our teacher, a lean guy with strict, mean eyes, and a toughness etched into him, barks. I cringe.

Is he a drill sergeant for the _Marines_ or something? God.

A few of them roll their eyes only to get a death glare. They occupy seats accordingly. Except, I notice something strange. Lucy tugs Kendra's arm and whispers something. Kendra nods and walks to sit next to Archie. Who looks like he could die. And not from his muscular disease or whatever it is.

Lucy sits in the front, next to the short guy. He looks hopeful, she glares at him as if to say, "like hell." I guess I'm not the only who's noticed that Lucy's kind of really, really hot.

Our teacher writes something on the board: "Kaiser" and underlines it. "You will call me Sir or Mr. Kaiser, no exceptions. You will shut up in this class unless I say otherwise. You will follow my orders when they are given, no exceptions.

"And, now that you have chosen your seats, say goodbye.

"Your friends will be a distraction and you chose your friends as seatmates. I will assign you seats and have," he looks around for a second, his eyes flickering over us, "_you,_" he points at me, "pass these out, accordingly," he holds up a stack of yellow papers. Familiar yellow papers. The test from the enrollment forms.

It's quick. The seating arrangement ends up looking a little like this:

FIRST ROW Patrice, the blonde guy, the small girl, Archie.

SECOND ROW A chunky kid, a lanky guy, a kid with glasses bigger than his face, the black kid.

THIRD ROW Kendra, Lucy, me, the short guy.

FOURTH ROW An awkward girl, the girl with the ponytail, the skinny guy.

FIFTH ROW The black girl, a chubby girl, the guy with curlyish hair, a pale guy with dark brown hair and electric eyes.

Now that I think about it, Lucy probably had Kendra sit as far from her as possible originally because she saw this coming. Brilliant. She even picked the moment when Mr. Kaiser wasn't looking. Brilliant.

He stares at me, well, glares. It's one of the most intimidating things _ever,_ like being scrutinized by someone about to dissect you, being judged by the cool kids because the nightmare came true and you really didn't wear pants to school, having a principal examine you because you just lied through your teeth, standing before a row of judges who are all looking you up and down and letting their pencils scratch against the papers before them.

That's Mr. Kaiser glaring at me. _That._

I pass out the papers, trying not to skim their context like he ordered. I catch a few things. On Patrice's: "Red", on the blonde guy's: "Big Man", on the small girl's: "Chatterbox", on Archie's: "Crip", on the black kid's: "Fudge", on Kendra's: "Blondie", on Lucy's: "Mirror", on the short guy's: "Hobbit", on the girl with the ponytail's: "Monger", on the skinny guy's: "Chew Toy", the black girl's: "Showoff", on the guy with the curlyish hair's: "Frodo", and on the pale guy's: "Ruthless".

Nicknames. Our new names in the class.

Mine?

"The Brain."

* * *

He leads us into the main hall, barking when even the ghost of whisper echoes and keeping our knees going up to our stomachs. I can't help but feel like he was a drill sergeant in a past life. It's frightening. Terrifying, actually.

"Now," he grits out, eyeing us all, "I'm going to lay down some _rules_ for you kiddies. In the classroom, there _will_ be order. But in the halls . . . It's survival of the fittest."

I think a silence falls over us, our breaths all hitching simultaneously. Survival of the fittest. Does he mean . . . He couldn't. They can't _possibly_ allow that kind of thing at this school! It's _illegal!_ My mom wouldn't have enrolled me in this kind of _nuthouse!_

. . .

Would she? Is _this_ the "bright side" she was talking about? Did she want me . . . Gone?

"_Here_ is where you kiddies rule, this is your domain. Don't get trampled, don't let it get taken over. The space we give you, we _assign_ you, is your responsibility. If the 8th graders invade and take it over, too bad. If you wanna take over the cafeteria, their domain, you're free to try. But all we hand over to you, is the main hall. Cafeteria's theirs as far as I'm concerned. The classroom's though . . . Don't break any rules, don't talk back, don't cause a scene, don't interrupt me while I teach, don't give me stupid answers or ask me stupid questions. Are we clear?" We still don't breathe. We still don't move. There's a fearful, tense silence and stillness no one is willing to break.

Until someone does.

The blonde guy, "Big Man". He stands up a little straighter, grinning that winner's smile, and says, coolly, dumbly, "yessir."

I wince. I expect him to get hit. I expect _something_ for the way he says it.

Nothing.

Mr. Kaiser smiles at him and says, "you, Sampson — "

"Brett, Mr. Kaiser," the blonde guy — Brett — says, chilly. He's an idiot.

"Big Man, here. Your personality screams it. And when I'm charge, you're all inferior, undeserving of your given name. Well, Big Man, I expect that posture whenever you're in my classroom. I expect it from all of you. Or there _will_ be consequences. Dire consequences. Understood?" We all nod. No one is dumb enough not to. Not even Brett.

"Before you leave," Mr. Kaiser says, a different edge to his voice, "I have one last rule for you. The only real one for the halls."

The class tenses.

"Don't kill each other."

My hands curl into fists, my head snapping to the side. Lucy doesn't look like she's breathing. I don't feel like I am either.

"Don't worry, Sir, you don't have to worry about us," Brett laughs.

The short kid, the black kid, the skinny guy, and the curlyish haired one laugh in suit. Everyone but Patrice, Archie, and I do something to acknowledge it positively. I guess Brett really is the "Big Man" here.

"It's not the boys I'm worried about," Kaiser replies. I swear he looks straight at Lucy as he says it, "and I shouldn't have to be worried about anyone, right, Mirror?"

"Nope," she pops the "p", an edge to her voice and a stiffness like nothing I've never seen before in her body language.

Her cunning, her mystery, her boldness, _her._ All so intoxicating.

I can _feel_ Patrice glaring at me. Sigh. I didn't even _do_ anything! Girls are so confusing.

* * *

I stick like glue to Archie and Patrice. Stick to the friends you've made, you might not make more.

Except, I do. Ruthless, that's what Kaiser decided to call him.

He tells me his name is Lewis, he smiles at Patrice and fist bumps Archie. But I saw him hanging out with Brett and his lackies (who Lewis gives proper names, the black guy is Malcolm, the short guy is Eddie, the skinny guy is Richie, and the guy with curlyish hair is Simon). There's no way Patrice and Archie hanging out with cool kids is status quo. I mean, they're amazing but they just don't click with popular.

"Ev, come on, we've gotta head to the main hall. If we eat lunch in the cafeteria, the 8th graders will probably kill us. Then again, Lucy and her minions will probably torture us if we eat lunch in the main hall. Damn my witch of a sister," he curses.

"We'll be fine, Evan. Don't listen to Lew, he's crazy," Patrice sighs, grabbing my wrist.

"Will we really, Patrice? I mean, it was only last year that she — "

"_Archie._ We don't talk about _that_ . . . We'll be fine," she says.

"Wait, about what?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Patrice, Kendra, Lucy, Charlotte — the small one, Molly — with the ponytail, and Cassie — Kaiser called her Showoff, used to be . . . Friends. Patrice, Kendra — " he does that little sigh like he's in heaven again, I guess he's got the hots for Kendra " — and Lucy were _best_ friends. Until last year. When Patrice came to the dark side after Lucy kicked her out and dumped her lunch on Patrice. Not like she would've eaten it anyways, Lucy's convinced she's fat," Archie informs me.

Mirror. Her nickname makes sense. Kaiser looking at her like he did makes sense. Mirror; she's 2 faced. Yet . . .

I'm quiet for a minute. Then, I grab Patrice's wrist.

"Huh?" She asks.

"I'll take that as a "screw it, we're eating lunch wherever we want", Evan," Lewis laughs a little.

"Bingo," I smile.

We walk in laughing. Archie has a distinct laugh, everything about Archie is distinct. It's kind of nervous and geeky but it's warm and happy, I decide that I like it. Not like I like Patrice's laugh. Her laugh is light and pretty, but not girly. It's pleasant and giggle ridden. It really contrasts Lewis' low chuckle, with all the breathy inbetweens. He's cracking up with me, comfortably. They all are.

They think I'm funny.

Some of the popular kids aren't amused. They send us this look . . . I think, if I read into it, it says "I literally could not hate you more" but I don't know for sure.

Kendra just tilts her head and looks curious, dumbfounded, like she has no idea what's happening. Lucy lifts her head slightly, like she's making some big, important decision as she examines us. Charlotte, Molly, and Cassie all go back to the _taptaptap!_ sound, clicking their fingers against phone keyboards. Eddie resumes some joke, I guess.

No one really pays us much attention. We take that happily and sit down on the steps farthest from Brett and his lackies. And then, it happens.

Ambush.

"8th graders!" Someone screams. I don't know what exactly happens. I get caught in the stampede, managing to be ripped away from the friends I'd been sticking to like glue.

I bump into a girl. Protectively, instinctually, I wrap my arms around her and pull her close so she won't get trampled. Her body compacts against mine, her head ducking into my chest.

We take cover behind the closest steps.

Screams. Thundering footsteps. Carnage. I can hear battle cries and grunts and even snaps like bones. Thuds of collision, groans, smacks. The sound of bloodthirsty, vicious, hormonal teenagers. The sound of war.

I can only pray Archie gets out. I can only pray any of my friends get out.

Lucy, I protected Lucy. She grumbles, flustered. It takes a moment for her to recompose herself and put her hands on her hips, assertively. Confident, mysterious, cunning, bold.

"Thanks, I guess," she says, sharply.

"No problem, Lucy," I shrug, "it wouldn't've been right to let you get trampled." I should've just stuck with "no problem, Lucy," now I've shoved my foot down my throat. I'm so, so stupid. "The Brain". Yeah, right, Mr. Kaiser.

"I guess. So, do you need help finding the loser squad?" She asks, raising an eyebrow. I take note of how she talks with her hands before realizing what she means. The loser squad. Archie, Patrice, Lewis.

"Isn't Lewis one of the cool kids?" I ask.

"Technically, my stupid brother is. But he spends enough time with Gollum and the crip to count," she scoffs.

I can see something in her eyes. Like a layer of defense. Is that what this is? She and Lewis don't seem all that close, not with the way they avoid each other, the way they look at each other like they're going to kill each other, and the way I've heard them talk about each other. I want to know what's underneath this Lucy. The real Lucy.

I wonder if I have a chance of that.

* * *

Kaiser smirks at us when we trudge back into his class. He slams his hands down on his desk, startling us, and snarls, "I heard the ambush."

Those of us who were bruised moan. Those of us who fought bravely grunt. The rest of us groan and wince at the memory.

"Pathetic," he growls, "let's get down to business."

I look around, observing, while he lectures us on grammar. Molly, the blonde girl with the ponytail, is doodling what looks like the gossip I caught slithers of this morning. Monger. Gossipmonger. Someone who spreads gossip instinctually. How suiting.

I turn to the blonde girl next to me, Kendra. Blondie. Not hard to guess. She's blonde and, from what I've seen and heard, she's dumb as a rock. Stereotypical yet so, so hot. She's nice though. She might actually be nice _because_ she's stupid. Who knows?

My eyes find the small one, Charlotte, with the curliest hair I've ever seen. Her fingers are tapping at thin air. Wow. She must be a _major_ gossip. Maybe that's why Kaiser decided to call her Chatterbox. Gossipping would involve a lot of talking, after all. And she seemed really chatty when I saw her this morning.

I skim over the easy ones, Patrice has red hair, Archie is on crutches, Brett's obviously the big shot (he's probably gonna be QB after tryouts), Eddie is really short, and Simon has curlyish hair like Frodo, Cassie is always raising her hand and trying harder than everyone else. Now, Malcolm . . . I doubt it's a racial thing. "Fudge" . . . Warm to cold. Maybe. The way he went from totally relaxed and friendly to a soldier when we were ambushed . . . It would make sense. I guess. But what about Lewis? Ruthless? How is he ruthless?

The way he treats Lucy? So cold and distant? Something I haven't been let in on yet?

. . .

And what about me? The Brain. I'm not smart enough for that nickname, I don't think so. It doesn't seem right. It doesn't fit. I'm not The Brain.

How can I be?

"Brain! Come up here and rewrite this sentence," Mr. Kaiser instructs. I nod, standing up straight and marching up with a quick and fearful, "sir, yes, sir".

"He know your a total airheads."

Easy. No problem at all. The verb tense isn't right, "your" is the possessive one and we want the compound one, and "airheads" is plural but this calls for singular.

I uncap the black marker.

"Write big, write neat," he instructs.

"Sir, yes, sir," I nod. Slowly, carefully, I write it out, correctly. "He knows you're a total airhead."

"Now, turn to the class." I do, obediently. "Explain, loudly and clearly, why you changed it to that."

I gulp. Public speech . . . No, you can do this, Evan. You're going to at your bar mitzvah in front of your entire family (even the distant uncles and aunts and cousins you don't know) and friends, you can explain a sentence to some 12-13 year olds.

"The verb tense was incorrect with the pronoun, to use a pronoun and say "know" instead of "knows" in this context, the pronoun can't be third person. The "your" used was possessive even though the proper sentence required the compound "you're" and "airheads" should've been singular, not plural, since only one subject is being referred to," I explain, ignoring how clammy I feel and the knots in my stomach.

"Very good, Brain," he nods, "sit down."

I scurry back to my seat, not wanting to die for staying up to long.

It happens after a few minutes. A spitball. Just one. From Eddie. And he gets an example made of him. Publically.

He has to wear a sign that says "I AM A DELINQUENT MORON, INCAPABLE OF FOLLOWING BASIC INSTRUCTION" for a week. I cringe. Then, he apologizes to me. Right. There. He isn't forced to. He just does. And Lucy smiles at me.

I catch on; I'm _in_ with the cool kids. Holy. Crap.

* * *

There's another ambush the next week, when Eddie's punishment is up. We charge this time. Brett leads us, Lewis at his side.

We've been planning it for days. Move in quietly, sending only our 2 strongest — Ruthless and Big Man. Lewis takes out the guards on the right side and Brett the ones on the left. Then, our second wave of special units — Hobbit, Frodo, Fudge, Chew Toy — heads in, clearing a path through the center. And then we send in our regular footsoldiers — essentially everyone else — to battle. I go in with them, making sure it goes as planned, Lewis guarding me.

It's not smooth. There's hell on the way. I see Archie fighting tooth and nail, using his crutches to whack people, targeting the legs and stomach just like we told him. Patrice is wrestling with an 8th grader twice her size, clawing and smashing elbows and fists, on the ground. Brett tackles one of the biggest, scariest 8th graders. I hear bones snap and crunch when they thud against the ground.

I catch a glimpse of Eddie and Malcolm double teaming a chunky kid, getting in gnarly blows. It looks painful. But not as painful as Lewis trying to decapitate (or suffocate or strangle or God knows what) the tallest, leanest, meanest looking guy I've ever seen, pressing his fists against the kid's jugular, and using his elbows to smack away anyone who tries to interfere for getting swingy on me. I wince at that, putting a hand to my own throat.

Turning around, rapidly, I see Richie, of all people, clinging to a big, chubby guy's back, twisting and writhing, trying to bring him down. In the background, Molly claws at a girl's eyes, screaming.

Simon dives out of my peripheral vision, letting out a war cry. I take a step back at that. Wow. He's vicious. But not _nearly_ as vicious as Cassie, who's tearing out one of the hottest 8th graders I've ever seen.

Then, I see something I never even imagined. Charlotte tackling a boy, grabbing him by the waist, and smashing him into the ground. She screeches, pinning him down. Her limbs flail, he screams. I turn away, not wanting to watch the tiny girl _murder_ someone.

Kendra and Lucy. Kendra basically just standing there, looking aside, clearly thinking something stupid, and Lucy cat-fighting it out with a redheaded 8th grade girl. They tear at each other's hair, claw at each other's eyes, shove and push each other, yanking, screaming insults. Girls are terrifying.

I didn't picture my attack strategy to be this . . . Violent.

I also didn't expect someone to side tackle me. Or to have the reflexes to spin it around, smashing his elbow and hip into the cafeteria ground. I pant, trying to catch my breath. Why did that wind me so much? Was it just the adrenaline?

I don't have time to dwell on it, he's fighting back, pushing and thrashing. So, I act on my guts and smash my elbow into his ribs. He spits up at me. Disgusting!

"Brain! Bang his head into the floor!" Eddie exclaims.

Brain. I'm The Brain. They respect me. They all do. And I respect them.

We're a unit. Sure, it's a hierarchy and my friends — _ex_-friends, they haven't talked to me since Lucy grabbed my hand to take me to the Dairy Queen with the cool kids — are at the very bottom, but we work together.

So I bang his head into the floor and he groans, curling into a ball as Lewis helps me up, grunting, coldly.

Our attack works. We weaken the 8th graders. We scare them. We get even.

My plans get us even with the 8th graders.

My. Plans.

"All hail The Brain!" Brett exclaims, him and Malcolm hoisting me on a shoulder each. They cheer. They all cheer. All the 7th graders, they _hail_ me. They _hail_ Evan Goldman.

The place of disorder, the halls and cafeteria and everything outside the locked doors, are mine to take.

I just have to convince them.

* * *

It starts a month later. Patrice won't even look at me. Archie scowls every time he does. Lewis doesn't really talk to me much.

I don't really care. I just walk by them in the halls, laughing with Brett and Eddie and Malcolm and Simon and Richie and all my friends, head high and grinning as people whistle and cheer at us. We've taken over a lot of the school. We've secured the east and west halls, part of the cafeteria, and the red cart line. It's not enough.

The power is all so intoxicating and the way Lucy looks at me — wasn't there something I saw underneath those kind of looks? — is amazing. I. Want. More. I crave more. I need more. I'll take more.

So, I plot. I spitball ideas with Eddie, Cassie, Molly, Charlotte, Lucy, Malcolm, Richie, and Simon. Brett's not an idea guy. Or a brain guy. At all.

We've almost got something when we head into Kaiser's classroom after lunch. But I notice something in the way Lucy and Kendra giggle. I notice something in the way Charlotte's eyes bulge. And in the way Patrice slouches.

"It's not the boys I'm worried about." But they can't kill each other. They can't do anything to each other in class.

It's against the rules. They wouldn't dare break the rules. Not after what happened to the lanky guy. He hasn't spoken since.

Not around me.

* * *

We walk down the hall, confident and cool, to homeroom. Archie clops — or _whatever_ — near us, hugging the walls. Brett grins at us, nodding. Simon laughs and Richie nods, eagerly. Eddie and Malcolm exchange knowing looks, sharing a quick nod before playfully pushing Brett towards Archie. My eyebrows crease, I don't know quite what he's going to do.

And then he does it. He pushes Archie down.

They all laugh, grinning like idiots. And I do too.

Maybe I should feel bad, maybe I should remember the laughs and the jokes about his terminal illness. I don't. I just laugh, even when Archie looks up, hurt in his eyes. It's funny, after all. Slapstick comedy. Brett did it. Big Man.

Of course I'm going to laugh.

But there's a rumor in class. There's giggling and the _taptaptap!_ and whispering and staring. Patrice runs into the bathroom to cry before Kaiser enters. He eyes us up and down, taking roll.

"Red," he growls.

We all wait, tense, even though we _know_ there won't be a response. I think I'm holding my breath.

Nothing.

He grunts and calls the nickname again.

Still, nothing.

Tsking, he marks her absent.

There's a moment I feel bad, a moment I want to kick myself for laughing when Brett pushed Archie. But it's so, so fleeting.

And then Lucy is looking at me like the stars shine. Oh, God.

* * *

My bar mitzvah is in a week. _Everyone_ is coming. Brett, Eddie, Lucy, Kendra, Simon, Richie, Cassie, Molly, Lewis. Everyone.

Even 8th graders. We've signed a temporary peace treaty, the battles are scheduled to resume after the party.

Brett grins and high fives me at lunch, patting my back.

"Hey, Brain! I can't wait for your party," he laughs, noogying me a little.

"Me neither," I grin, laughing with him.

"It's gonna kick major ass," Eddie says, confidently, "and I'm gonna make a move on Lucy at it."

"You've been dropping lines and making moves on her since the 4th grade, Ed," Malcolm points out, checking his best friend.

"It'll work, I've grown 5 inches since then. I'm up to her eyebrows now!" He exclaims, checking Malcolm back.

"Sure it will," Malcolm chuckles, "what'd'you guys think?"

"She'll shoot you down like King Kong did to the army's planes," Simon says, scoffing slightly, and patting Eddie on the back.

"Probably," I nod in agreement.

"Probably? Definitely. She doesn't _have_ a heart when it comes to you, man," Richie shrugs, rubbing Eddie's back, comfortingly.

"Now I feel bad," Eddie tells us.

"Hey, on the bright side, I'm _so_ gonna ask Kendra out," Brett grins, nodding.

"That's something that will actually work out," Lewis pipes up, turning his apple.

"Definitely," I grin. My bar mitzvah is setting me up for this. For something awesome. Well, it's setting all of us up for something awesome.

This is fantastic!

It's not until Lewis scowls at me in science that I realize the flaw in our next attack. Teamwork.

Patrice is upset, she's hidden in the bathroom repeatedly and has been missing school since the _taptaptap!_ started. Archie _hates_ me right now. Lewis has said _maybe_ 5 words to me all month.

We aren't a team. We can't take over if we aren't a team. I need to fix this. I need to fix _us._ It's not even for the attack, I . . . I'm a jerk.

I've laughed at Archie, I've ignored Patrice, I _deserve_ to be shunned by Lewis. And . . . I just want my friends back. I want the jokes about Archie's terminal illness, the playing _Halo_ and _Guitar Hero_ and _GTA_ just for fun, the acting like morons in public, the going to the movies, the hanging out at the _Dairy Queen,_ all of it, I want it back.

I'm a jerk.

And . . . I'm supposed to be The Brain. I have to fix this. I have to get Patrice to stop crying and Archie to stop hating me and Lewis to talk to me. I have to fix more than just _my_ friendships. I have to fix Lucy's and Kendra's and Charlotte's and everyone's.

I'm going to. I'll do it and I'll really be The Brain. I'll live up to Kaiser's expectations.

I wait. It's all in the plan. Archie is coming. I know he is. And I got Lewis here, talked him into it. For Patrice. She's a nice person, she doesn't deserve it. Whatever "it" actually is.

"What do you think it is?" Lewis asks with no clopping in hearing range.

"A really, really nasty rumor, I guess," I shrug.

"Do you trust her?" He murmurs.

"Do you?" I ask.

"Not even a little," he deadpans.

"I do. She trusts me. There's something about her . . . Something to her. It's special, it's down to earth, it's real. It's . . . Lucy," I explain.

"I know. She used to be fantastic. She used to be the best friend possible for Patrice, she and Kendra both. But then she started liking boys and doing dumb things, dumber than the things Kendra asks sometimes." I take it in. Boys. The start and the end.

"I have a plan," I tell Archie, as he arrives.

"It's about you," he responds.

"Huh?"

"Patrice likhes you. A lot. Lucy does too. She shtole you away from us so she won, but she isn't hahppay with it. She's going to kiss you, I think," he sighs, his voice weary and his speech impediment acting up.

"I'm going to fix them."

* * *

It isn't chaos. It isn't order. It's somewhere inbetween. That's what I need. I need to create enough chaos to force them to listen to me.

And that's what we're gonna do. If I wanna fix everything, I need this to work. I've told them it's for the battle after my bar mitzvah.

I signal Archie. Who signals Lewis. Who signals the boys.

And it all comes to life. They run amuck. The girls are forced to regrouping and separating. And I snatch Lucy and Patrice. Patrice thrashes, violently, clearly not happy. Lucy pulls away and has to be dragged.

Violent. Both of them. At my expense. I groan at that. Kendra, whom I've convinced to help, just sort of giggles, absentmindedly.

"Evan!" They scream.

"You two need to make up and stop this stupid fight," I exclaim, "we need to get along if we stand a chance in taking the cafeteria. Besides, the plotting you're doing Luce, you're just proving Kaiser right. You're just adding another front. And Patrice, look me in the eye and tell me you don't miss having Lucy and Kendra as friends."

"Just butt out of it, Brain," Lucy snaps, glaring fiercely. It's not her. That's not who Lucy really is. I can see it so clearly in her eyes.

"But, Lucy — " Kendra tries, innocently.

"Kendra!" Lucy isn't having it.

"Miss them? I wouldn't miss them if you paid me, Evan," Patrice lies. She isn't a good liar. At all.

"Thanks, Gollum. Say that a little louder, I don't think Mexico heard you," Lucy says, sarcasm dripping from her voice. I roll my eyes, exasperated.

"Lucy, it's not like we don't deserve it. I mean . . . Well, you _know_ what I mean, Lu," Kendra sighs, trying to figure out the words.

"_Look,_ if you could both apologize and be friends again, that'd be great," I deadpan, ". . . I mean, _this_ isn't worth it. Losing a friendship isn't worth this. You must miss calling each other a dozen times every day, passing notes in class — but Kaiser would kill you, making weird faces from across the room, crying on each other's shoulders, bursting into song together for no apparent reason, laughing at stupid inside jokes."

". . . Well, Patty, I mean . . ." Lucy trails off, adjusting her bag's strap on her shoulder.

"If your heart is always breaking," Patrice sings, softly.

"And you want to run and hide," Lucy sings back.

"When your hope is gone," Kendra sings, smiling.

"Your friend is on your side," they sing together.

Kendra smiles, squealing slightly. "Group hug!" She exclaims, dragging them into a warm hug.

"I missed you," Lucy mutters.

"I missed you, too, Louie, Kenny," Patrice whispers.

Inbetween the chaos, inbetween the order, somewhere in that zone is this. This little piece of glory. It's perfect.

And even more so when they hug me and mumble thanks.

* * *

Kaiser yells at us when we get into class. Patrice, Kendra, Lucy, Charlotte, Molly, and Cassie all pass notes. Archie just smiles at how happy Patrice is and sighs dreamily when Kendra smiles at him. I almost laugh. It's so casual, so normal.

I think we're friends again. Him, Patrice, Lewis, and I. If the way Lewis grins at me when we get into class says anything.

We all get 2 weeks of detention. The awkward looking girl bursts into tears. Brett makes eye contact with me and mock slits his throat, rolling his eyes. I grin at him and shrug.

I notice the way Lucy's hair catches the light. I notice the way she rolls her eyes as Kaiser fills out detention slips. I notice how pretty she looks today, prettier than usual. And she's really freaking pretty.

Eddie tosses a crumpled piece of paper at me. I unfold it, smoothing out its crinkles. "Dude, ask Lucy out already." My face turns red. My blood burns. I gag for a quick second, mouthing gibberish.

Lucy turns to me and smiles, coyly, like she knows something. Patrice giggles a little. Kendra hums, absentmindedly, not really noticing. She's clueless like that.

I glance over at Lewis, mouthing for help and holding up Eddie's note, pointing at it with desperation in my eyes.

He chuckles and shrugs, mouthing back, "seriously, Ev, when are you going to?"

If my face can get any redder, it does.

And then Archie gestures like a mad man to see it. So I show him, hoping he'll get how ridiculous it is. He laughs for a second and mouths, "do it."

When I show Brett and he makes kissy faces, I realize that I have the worst friends. Ever.

Detention is literally just 2 hours, sitting alone in the library. No supervisor, no lights, no food, just us. They don't care what we do as long as we don't break out or pig out.

We talk. We sit with our limbs overlapping and shoulders brushing. It's all laughing and trying to find the bright side and storytelling. We don't gossip. We just talk about our childhoods and the dumb things we've done with our friends.

It's not that bad. Even if we're hungry and it's dark and we have dry throats.

Lucy tells us about when Kendra asked what's in chicken nuggets, about when Kendra didn't realize that Archie has a major crush on her (Archie blushes and protests at this, but Kendra says that it's sweet and he shuts up), about when she and Patrice got banned from the Walmart, about when she and Kendra went on a rollercoaster 3 towns over and almost died (I can't help but feel she exaggerates it).

We talk and we talk, and we play truth or dare. Malcolm dares me to kiss Lucy and the boys all make kissy faces, but Lewis threatens my life because she's his "little" sister (in reality, he's only 12 minutes older than her). I do and Patrice, of all people, wolf whistles even though I don't kiss her that long. In return, I make Malcolm tell us his most embarrassing childhood memory.

He tells about the time he got locked in a closet and peed himself, only to be found by his friends.

It's nice. It's the bright side. Between the chaos and between the order, between that is this.

The bright side.

* * *

My bar mitzvah is _perfect._ All my friends, all getting along. Lewis smiles and hugs me, clapping my back. Archie accepts my hundreds of apologies, again and again, laughing at how "neurotic" I'm being. Patrice goes on her toes to hug me, wishing me a happy birthday, even though it's against her religion. I laugh.

This, this is how it should be. This is what I want.

Lucy doesn't kiss me like Archie predicted. She smiles softly, waving across the room, almost shyly. It's like an invitation to find out who the girl behind all the makeup and popularity is. To meet the real Lucy.

Before I head over to her to try, I see Brett and the boys talking to Archie, getting to know each other, I see Lewis and Charlotte smiling and flirting, I see Molly and Cassie and Kendra with Patrice, catching up, I see 8th graders dancing and laughing with 7th graders. I see chaos and I see order, I see what _should_ happen in school.

"Nice party," she smiles.

"Thanks. You . . . Look . . . Amazing," I nervously say, trying not to shove my foot in my mouth again.

"I know," she smirks, "well, I think I do."

"You do," I confirm, "you always do."

"So, wanna dance?" She asks, smiling, shyly.

"More than anything," I nod, hopelessly. She grins, taking my hand and dragging me to the dance floor. I can start with this, I can get her to open up to me later. This is enough for now.

Just dancing and laughing.

I love my school. I love its bright side.

* * *

Hold back that follow or favorite,

And trade it for a review,

It'll serve as feedback & motivation for my writing tricks,

And otherwise, I might just slap you.

- Queen Alison the Obstinate


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